Stairway to Heaven
by CeeCeeSings
Summary: My first TXF fic! I was wrong; this started as a one-off and is definitely now going to be a multi-chapter dealie. My take on what happened after Scully woke up on Mulder's sofa at the end of "All Things" and their first case after the events of that night. Hope you enjoy! DEFINITE, OBVIOUS SCULDER.
1. Chimes

**A/N: Hi there! This is my VERY FIRST TXF fanfic. I have, most recently, written tons of Downton Abbey fics, and, historically, Walking Dead and Harry Potter fics. I actually can't believe it's taken me this long to try writing a little something about these two, as they were, way back in the '90s, my OG OTP. I don't even know if people still read TXF FF, but I wanted to throw this out into the universe. Thanks for reading, if you are here!**

**~CeeCee**

_There was only darkness, at first. _

_A warm, comfortable darkness, which cradled her completely and smelled enticing and safe._

_It was the sound of chimes that woke her, vibrating in this comforting blackness. _

She gasped awake. The room she was in wasn't one of her own, but deeply familiar, and only slightly brighter than the darkness had been. She was alert and unworried. Her heart beat was slow and her breath was even.

She tugged at the flannel blanket that covered her semi-supine form, pulling it up to her nose. That was it, the smell from the darkness. She immediately knew where she was.

_Mulder. _

She sat up and blinked, glancing around the moonlight-tinged living room of Apartment 42. The chimes sounded again, in the recesses of her mind.

She thought of Daniel, how her heart had ached and tugged at the sight of him after all these years. Of Maggie, all her righteousness and anger falling away to reveal a daughter who simply wanted her distracted father's attention, at last. She thought of Colleen Azar, of the woman's preternatural calm and focus, a former scientist turned believer.

Colleen had admonished her: she needed to slow down. How she had rankled at that! She'd been surprised to find herself so angry with the woman; no, if she was being honest with herself, she'd been _seething, _her fury a nest of snakes in the pit of her stomach.

But somehow, her ire had burned out, leaving only clarity in its wake: accidents sometimes weren't really accidents; they were messages, if only one would listen.

Dana Scully was listening, at last.

She could pretend she was surprised when, at long last, she caught up to the blond woman in the khaki outfit only to find…_Mulder. _

She could pretend that, yes, but it _would _be pretense only. And to herself, which was even worse than lying to someone else.

No, when she saw his familiar, much-loved face, there had been a click deep inside of her, like a deadbolt twisted open on a door she'd long ago forgotten existed.

He was back from England.

From his latest jaunt, chasing the world's oddities in unusual places.

He grinned that goofy grin he had, slung his arm around her shoulder, and pushed her towards a Thai takeout place on the way to his apartment.

They had sat as they so often had over the past half-dozen years or so, on his battered sofa, the good smells of green curry and coconut rice and the couch's worn leather, imprinted with its owner's scent, making her entire body hum slightly. She had felt the stresses of the weekend seep away.

Their conversation had been both earnest and silly, disjointed and seamless in turns, as it always seemed to be, though of course, that was an illusion; as difficult as it was to imagine, there was a time she hadn't known the man seated beside her. But now, their chat easily moved from her groans over terrible Stonehenge puns to his earnest appreciation of her unconventional methods in seeking out the source of Daniel's illness to her experience in the Buddhist temple, which she recounted with a small amount of embarrassment.

He responded and before she could help herself she had tucked her shoulder under his arm, his words somehow less important that the mere sound of his voice.

She had drifted to sleep, his musings becoming a low, faraway rumble, like a distant waterfall.

And now, here she was, awake at last. She glanced over at the large digital clock by his living room window. 2:32 a.m. She stood, still holding the throw he had tucked around her shoulders. She pulled it up to her nose again and inhaled deeply.

And thought she heard the sound of chimes, which was impossible.

She smiled and dropped the blanket onto the still-warm spot where she had been snoozing and walked towards the bedroom. The door was open.

She stood in the doorway, her heart pulsing and roaring in her ears. She couldn't stop grinning, and she shocked herself by releasing a short but loud burst of giggles. Mulder's slumbering form, sheets tangled around him, shifted slightly, but he didn't wake.

_What am I doing? What am I _thinking _of doing?_ She clapped her hands over her mouth and shook her head.

_There are no such things as accidents, _a voice whispered back. It should have sounded like that annoyingly right former scientist's, but it didn't. It sounded like Mulder. It sounded like her own voice.

_Mulder_. They had wound themselves so inextricably together for all these years. She tried not to think too hard about it, most times. It was…just the way it was. It wasn't until she had gotten ill, had witnessed the deep-seated anger in Bill, that she truly understood his anger directed at Mulder.

Oh, her brother had blamed her partner for interfering during a family time, in a place where work should be verboten. What she had realized that first time in the hospital was that Bill had been terrified, not only by the idea that his little sister might die of cancer, but by how largely Mulder loomed in her life. How he seemed to take up almost everything that Dana Scully was.

It hadn't seemed right to Bill Scully, a dyed-in-the-wool traditionalist, she now realized. He had attempted to categorize Mulder as her partner, her coworker, maybe, in moments of generosity, her friend, but he'd been left frustrated by the task.

Mulder was all those things to her.

And many other things.

Mulder had so much of her, nearly all of the time - no wonder Bill was angry. What was left for anyone else?

What was left for her?

She sometimes wondered why she stayed in that basement office. It hardly felt like a choice anymore. She thought of a few months ago, on New Year's. That brief, almost chaste kiss they had shared.

_The world didn't end. _

She giggled again through her fingers and leaned against the doorjamb. Her breath was uneven and jagged. Was this it, then? Had the past three days been leading up to this very moment? Had the past seven years?

She stared at Mulder's sleeping form and was suddenly unsure. Perhaps she should retreat back to the couch, a place she understood, where she had landed and slept many times. Being here, on the edge of his private space, was too uncertain.

Her feet moved her another step inside, towards the bed, the fingers of her right hand curled around the doorway. She was afraid to let go. She let out another sound, between a sigh and a laugh.

"Scully."

She yelped, gasped. He was awake. _Dammit, you idiot. _Now the laughter bubbled up and out of her and she was glad she was still holding on to something.

"Mulder, it's me," she answered, then could say no more. Her laugher took over, tinged with madness and lust.

"Yes, I was pretty sure it was," he was standing now, close enough she could feel the warmth of his body. "Are you okay, Scully?" His hair was sticking up. She only just resisted the urge to pat it down.

He was wearing only a crumpled white tee shirt and boxers. Not that it mattered. She had seen him as naked as the day he was born, shivering with shock in a Rhode Island motel shower stall; she'd changed the wound dressings on his bare chest, from a gunshot she herself had inflicted upon him. He had seen her in her skivvies on their first case together, that wild trip to Oregon when her world had been fundamentally changed though she'd not known it then. Physical nakedness didn't equal intimacy.

No, what mattered was that she was _here. _In his bedroom. At three o'clock in the morning.

_This was no accident. _

She wasn't sure any of it had been an accident, these past seven years. Maybe all of it, every moment, every sarcastic aside, every intellectual debate, every dash through the woods or the swamp or the snow, every shadowy hallway or unidentified light in the night sky had led to this. She had simply never listened

"Yes, Mulder, I'm okay," she answered, and started laughing again.

"Scully, did you break into my liquor cabinet?" He was watching her carefully, a grin twitching at the corner of his mouth. He seemed as awake as she was now.

"You don't have anything as extravagant as a liquor cabinet, Mulder," she retorted. She took another step closer to him. She felt a little drunk on her own boldness. "I wasn't even sure you actually had a bed."

"That's a really weird story, actually, Scully, because I didn't. But then I did, but it was a water bed and it kept leaking, so I replaced it with a normal one," he shrugged, as if large pieces of unpurchased furniture appearing out of nowhere was merely fodder for a pleasant anecdote rather than fundamentally impossible.

"'Really weird' doesn't cover it Mulder. That makes no sense," she replied. She stepped even closer, now fully enveloped in the sleep-pressed scent of him. She reached up and smoothed down the stray bit of hair that she'd resisted a few minutes before.

"I know Scully, but it's true," he shrugged, not seeming to take any special note of her hand on his head. They were affectionate enough with each other these days that she wasn't certain he thought anything of it. Why should he?

But she knew now. She understood at last, that all of those affectionate brushes and touches and embraces had each been their own but were also part of a whole. She slid her hand down the nape of his neck, resting her palm on his scratchy cheek. He sighed, made a small sound, but his hands remained at his sides.

"I _want_ to believe you, Mulder, but…" she trailed off, refreshed her grin. He grinned back. There was a glimmer of knowledge in his smile.

"Hey, Scully, you're the one who admitted you communed with God this afternoon. You can't suddenly slide back into incredulity now, can you?" His hands remained at his sides, but now he stepped closer.

She took a deep breath, heard chimes again, closer now.

"No, I guess not, Mulder," she shrugged, mimicking his motion. She deliberately reached up and placed her other hand on his face, rubbing his cheek with her thumb. His eyes widened. "I spent most of the weekend hashing out the past. There's nowhere to move but forward, I can see that now."

His face shifted, his smile gone, his brow creasing. He suddenly softened and became boyish. She felt a tension she'd not know was running through him slacken and drain away. His hands, at last, found her waist, tugged at her green sweater. The minute his fingers found her bare skin, she pulled him down and kissed him, a kiss that was only vaguely related to their reserved, restrained one a few months ago.

This one started lush and expanded into languidness. Her breaths were even and warm and sure, so very sure. His matched hers. He tugged her sweater over her head, then gently smoothed her staticky hair down. She laughed against his mouth.

"Scully? Is it okay? I didn't mean –"

"Yes, you did, Mulder. You did mean it," she pressed herself closer to him. She felt giddy, like a girl in the backseat of a car on prom night. She'd forgotten she could feel like this.

"Yeah, okay, yeah, I guess I did," he replied, his hair once again askew, his eyes searching her face. He leaned over and kissed her again, a long, gentler kiss. "I guess I always mean it when it comes to you, Scully." He paused a moment, then grinned wickedly. "Want to sit on my accidental bed? That's not a trick question."

"I do, Mulder," she slipped past him, shucking off her skirt on the way. She dove into the tangle of sheets and inhaled again, thinking of the endless succession of lonely motel beds she'd slept on, scattered all over the country, knowing he was only one door or one floor or several yards down the hall from her, wanting to go to him, but not quite sure exactly how to travel that space between them.

But now she was here. He followed, laying down beside her. He tugged her towards him, sighing again, his expression both boyish and wise. He stroked her cheek, her waist.

"Why now? Why tonight?" He searched her face. "Please know, Scully, I am not complaining. The very opposite."

"I know, Mulder. Always searching for the truth," she laughed again. "Why? Because there are no accidents."

"And everything's led to this," he answered, as if this were perfectly plausible. She was beginning to think it was.

"Thank goodness you're open-minded, Mulder, or I'd never be able to get you to understand."

They laughed together this time, then moved together, breathed together.

And distantly, she heard the sound of impossible chimes.


	2. Timing

He was at Stonehenge.

He was standing at the center of the ring of enormous rock slabs.

There was magic here. He could feel it.

The spring grass was soft against his bare feet, weaving its way between his toes. It was dusk, the sky a smooth unbroken line of indigo until it reached the western horizon, where it exploded into a riot of purple, pink, orange and gold.

The air was ripe with a familiar smell, something he could almost place. A scent that tickled his brain and his loins in equal measure. He smiled and shrugged, then looked around, hoping to find its source.

There was nothing, not that he could see. Just him, the ancient stones, the grass, and the sky.

He waited, knowing something was coming. If only he could place that scent…

"You know, Mulder, this isn't part of the sanctioned tour," a nasal, familiar voice startled him. Richard Langly's lanky frame appeared between two of the stones, clad in a drab brown druid's robe, heading towards him.

"Nice duds, Langly," he chuckled.

"Uh, dude?" The other man gestured towards him. He glanced down. He was wearing the same things. He found this hilarious. He laughed and shrugged.

"What are we doing here?" He asked his friend.

"Timing," came another voice, and another figure. "It's always about timing, whether people want to admit that or not." Byers' form this time, emerging from the growing dimness. The bearded, tidy man gazed up at the sky, then at the setting sun. "Honestly, Mulder, it's just about perfect. Not sure you could have planned it any better." He stood on the other side of him.

"The timing of what?" He asked. He felt as if he _should_ know, but it escaped him. He knew he felt good, whatever was happening, or about to happen.

"Way to go, Casanova," Frohike's dry interjection startled him. The short man was heading towards them, looking the most at home, oddly enough, in the simple robes they all wore. "I'm not sure what you've done to deserve such serendipity, Mulder, but I'd be willing to let you buy me a lottery ticket today. Maybe even play a round of high-stakes poker on my behalf."

"What are you guys talking about?" Mulder grinned at them, glad but perplexed that they were here. "Why are we here?"

"We're not," Byers shook his head. "Only you are."

"You're sleeping, Mulder," Langly added. "This is just a dream."

"Or a nightmare, given the company," he quipped back.

"Mock all you want, but we're in your head. _You_ brought us here," Frohike shrugged, looking surly.

"To remind you, of course," Byers answered.

"Exactly," Langly was nodding vigorously. His glasses slid down his nose.

"That miracles sometimes do happen, after years of searching," Frohike sighed. "Wake up, you lucky bastard."

oooOOOooo

He opened his eyes. The first thing he realized after the fact that he was no longer wearing a druid's robe (he was, in fact, completely naked) was that he was in his bed.

He almost never slept in his bed.

Then it all came rushing back to him: Thai take out, conversations about fate and God and Buddhist temples, the weight of Scully's head on his shoulder, the surprise and delight of her in his doorway, then in his arms, a few hours ago.

_You lucky bastard. _

But she wasn't in bed beside him, not any longer. He nearly sat up, longing to find her; but then he heard the rustle in the bathroom, of someone trying very hard to make as little noise as possible.

He settled himself down into the pillows again, listening to the small sounds she made. He could feel her when she came back into the bedroom, the whisper of fabric as she threw her jacket on, the scent of her, which had pulled him back from his dream, growing stronger as she walked past the bed and exited the room, felt her pause, almost imperceptibly, at the doorway, then move to the living room beyond.

There were a few moments of near silence, then he heard his front door close softly, felt the apartment sigh as she left the space.

He sat up, rubbing his face with his hands. They smelled of her, just as the sheets did. He could hardly believe it, what had transpired in the wee hours of the morning. His love for her was simply a fact, something he knew about himself as certainly as he knew his own name, or that this world was filled with things that couldn't be easily explained and might never be.

He hadn't been prepared, though he supposed the conversation they had before she drifted off on his shoulder had given him reason to hope.

_It's all about timing._

What he'd failed to understand wasn't that it had never been a question of _if _Dana Scully loved him; but rather _when_ she would feel safe enough to embrace it, to embrace him, _them_, without knowing where this would take them.

He had let her leave just now because he refused to impugn on her need for that sense of safety, of control. If anyone understood her stunning, fierce autonomy, it was him. He loved her for it and wouldn't dampen it for anything.

He stood, heading into the living room. He needed coffee, and then he needed a shower. Work was waiting. The X-Files were waiting. _Scully_ was waiting.

He was distractedly dumping grounds into the coffee maker when he saw the note, scrawled on sheet of lined paper torn from one of the notebooks stacked by his sofa. He started the coffee brewing and snatched it up:

_You need toothpaste. I fed the fish. See you at work, Spooky. _

He laughed out loud in his empty apartment and went to take a shower

oooOOOooo

He arrived in his basement office on the early side, his brain and body sizzling and snapping from a combination of last night's events, far, far too much coffee and the new case in his hands.

Skinner's secretary had chased after him before he'd caught the elevator downward, handing him a thick folder with the clear "X" designation starting off the case number. He now threw it onto the desk and plopped down in his chair, opening the folder like a juicy novel he couldn't wait to read. He lost himself in the details of the case, which was about as weird and wonderful as it got: mysterious staircases leading nowhere built along the Appalachian Trail, disappearing hikers, reappearing hikers, dozens of miles from where they were last seen, lost time, inexplicably healed wounds and mental health issues resolved…but then…some of the hikers disappearing again, this time, it seemed, for good…

"Anything interesting?" Scully stood in the doorway. There was a sense of, well, not unease, but…kinetic energy hovering around her.

He started a little; he'd been so thoroughly absorbed in the file he'd stopped wondering when his partner would arrive, and if she'd be, well, herself, when she did. He wondered if she knew he would be happy with however this played out, as long as she _stayed_. He wanted her, yes. But only as much of herself as she was willing to give. Though he'd replayed the previous evening in his head a dozen times this morning, it wouldn't happen again unless _she_ wanted it to.

"Lots of interesting things, Scully," he answered, slapping the file shut and looking up at her. She looked as beautiful as she usually did, because she was, empirically, a beautiful woman, but mostly because she was _Scully. _And because she had trusted him with so much, for so long… "What do you know about the Appalachian Trail?"

He could see something in her relax, completely, and she sat across from him, putting her bag on the floor.

"Not all that much, Mulder," she rolled her eyes at him. "Though at this point, I suppose I should be an expert on creepy, remote wooded areas." They both smirked, and she continued, "I know it's one of the longest hiking trails in the US, running from Georgia to Maine, I believe?"

"See, you know more than most non-hikers do about it, Scully," he answered, grinning at her. She seemed to be struggling with holding eye contact with for an extended period of time, and he understood why: every time their gazes met, he felt that wonderful jolt, a sense of something clicking perfectly into place. Wonderful, yes…and terribly off-putting, he supposed. He trusted that feeling. He wasn't sure she did. Not yet.

He opened the folder and began pulling out photos and medical records and other data from it, laying them out like the pieces of a puzzle that didn't quite fit together.

"Wait, wait, let me see that," she pulled one of the sheets of medical stats out of the array and studied it, her forehead creasing with concentration. After a few moments:

"This isn't possible, these numbers," she said flatly. "Forty-five-year-old woman, missing for ten days, in sub-freezing temperatures at night…no. Not possible."

"Except it must be, since it actually happened," he replied, hesitated. Then took a chance. Mostly because he trusted that feeling, that buzz of electricity, when their eyes met. "Listen, there are a few things that have come to my…attention…in the past twelve hours that I wouldn't have thought possible, yet, here we are, Scully."

She looked up quickly from the sheet of paper at his words. Two small rosy spots appeared high up on her cheeks, the only tell on her otherwise serene countenance. However. She held his gaze steadily now.

"We're going to go check out these alien stairs, aren't we, Mulder?" She sighed, blew a stray strand of hair out of her face.

"I never said anything about aliens, Scully."

"You never have to, Mulder. With you, they're always implied," she grinned, then a short bark of laughter escaped her. He grinned back, then became serious.

"I was actually thinking more along the lines of some sort of miniature…worm hole…a gateway alternate dimensions and realities," he responded, plucking the paper out of her hand and tucking it back into the file.

"Of course you were," she deadpanned. "You're practically _from _an alternate dimension, Mulder." She stood, straightening her suit jacket.

"I'm from this dimension, Scully, promise," he put his hands up, standing and shrugging into his jacket as well. "I like it here."

"You sure, Mulder?"

"Definitely. You're here, Scully," he felt the silly grin fall off his face. Her cheeks grew pink again.

"Well, where are we off to then, Mulder? Maine or Georgia?"

"That depends, Scully. You in the mood for lobstah or peaches?"

"You decide, Mulder. But wherever we go, you're taking me to a nice dinner," she grinned with one side of her mouth, reached out, with only a slight hesitation, and smoothed the lapel of his coat down unnecessarily.

"That was a given," he answered. "Let's go check out some alien stairs, Scully."


	3. Vanished

Chapter 3 - Vanished

They're first stop wasn't Georgia, or Maine.

They were in Media, Pennsylvania, just outside Philadelphia, which, as far as she could surmise, was a cute, hip, little town filled with families and single professionals, dotted with trendy restaurants, cafes, parks and boutiques, like the younger, cooler cousin of Georgetown.

"You promised me peaches, Mulder," she said as they got out of the car and walked up the short, manicured path of the tiny bungalow-style house that was their destination. "You promised me lobster."

"What? You don't like cheesesteaks, Scully?" He gave her a sideways grin as he rapped on the front door of the little house.

Her heart fluttered in her chest, and she chided herself silently. It was just Mulder being Mulder. He'd flung that particular grin her way dozens, no _hundreds_, of times over the past half-dozen years or so. It was just that, now, when he did so, she got a flash of what his face looked like up close, hazy with the remnants of sleep and blossoming desire, the tickle of his breath on her cheek…

He was still grinning at her but looked a bit puzzled. She realized she'd not answered him but was saved from having to come up with a sensible, witty retort by the door opening, a barefoot, fair-haired man in his early thirties standing on the other side of it.

"Hiya!" He greeted them with a smile, wiping his hands carelessly on his faded khaki shorts. "You must be the FBI."

Mulder briefly raised an eyebrow and she bit back laughter.

"Yes, I'm Agent Fox Mulder, this is my partner, Agent Dana Scully," he nodded towards her, and the trio of them shook hands in turn.

"Frederick Dudourge," the man replied. His grip was warm and firm, his gaze, serene and steady. "But please, call me Fred. Come in, I've got coffee and tea waiting."

Mulder shot her a look and a shrug. Very rarely did anyone from a case greet them with such easy and enthusiasm (with the exception, of course, of those wrapped up in some personal mania or conspiracy theory). Fred Dudourge, frankly, struck her as a man completely at ease with himself and the world around him, including a federal investigation on his disappearance – and reappearance – eight months ago. She was forcibly reminded of Colleen Azar, her serenity and certainty.

He ushered them into his small, bright kitchen that had an open, sliding glass door to a slightly overgrown backyard. Two medium-sized mottled grey dogs with bright blue eyes thumped their tails on the grass at the sight of them.

"Mr. Dudourge, we'd like to talk to you about your experience on the Appalachian trail last fall," Mulder began, as they took seats around his small kitchen table. "What prompted the trip?"

"Fred is fine, please," Dudourge responded, waving his hand lazily at them. One of the dogs padded into the room, collapsed happily onto his feet. "I'm sure you've got some of the background already, am I right?"

"Of course, Fred, but there's so much the file doesn't tell us, you see," Mulder answered easily. "We know about your divorce, of course, and losing your job last summer unexpectedly…but we don't know about _you _during that time."

"Well, it was shit, I can tell you," Fred shook his head ruefully, but she couldn't see any stress over the recollection on his face. "The firm closed from one week to the next – I worked for a start-up, we showed up one Monday and there was an eviction notice on the door – and Jo and I were having problems before that, already. I can see now they were mostly my fault. She and I are talking again...she came and saw me in the hospital after…after everything…well, never say never, am I right?"

He paused and grinned at them, and she replied without looking at Mulder. "Right, never say never. We like to keep all possibilities on the table." She felt her partner shift beside her and knew he was holding back laughter.

"Anyway, last September, I dunno. I had been unemployed for two months, Jo had moved out…I was at a low point, I can tell you. Then Tim stopped by, suggested the trip. Well, it seemed like I needed to do _something_, so I said yes," he shrugged again, and now his face grew thoughtful, his forehead creasing.

"Timothy Garrison," Mulder prompted. "Who, to date, is still missing."

"Yeah, yeah," Dudourge answered, and for the first time, Scully could see something other than serenity in his expression. "I know. I know. There are still people, after all this time, who think Tim's dead. That I killed him, either on purpose or accidentally."

"Not necessarily, Mr. Dudourge," she answered. _Fred,_ she reminded herself. It was always better to keep witnesses comfortable. "Mr. Garrison is officially listed as missing, and you're certainly no longer considered a suspect in his disappearance. We know he's disappeared before."

"Yeah, and reappeared, like me," Fred answered. "But now he's been gone for…eight months? I don't think he's coming back, you know? I think…I think he was _ready_ to go, does that make sense? I'm here, I think, because I need to see how it plays out with Jo, okay? I want to make sure I give her – _us_ – my best shot."

Mulder pulled something from his briefcase and laid it on the table between them. It was a large photo of a flight of carpeted stairs, freestanding in the middle of a copse of trees. For some reason, the damned things gave her the creeps, despite everything she'd seen, gone through, since the first time she entered that basement office so long ago.

She kept a close eye on Fred Dudourge. Mulder had told her he was going to spring the photo on him at some point during the conversation, without warning. Fred leaned over and picked it up, a small smile playing on his lips.

"They're the damndest things, aren't they? So…so…_normal _looking, but in the totally wrong place."

"Tell us about them, Fred," Mulder leaned forward, his voice lowered. She could tell he was excited.

"Oooophh," the other man let out a sigh, the smile still on his face. "We came across them about two weeks in. These are along the trail that's near Sparta. We had walked about two hundred miles at that point, slow and steady, mostly because while I was in decent shape, I was a hiking newbie. And my head way screwy, remember. It was around noon, we were just talking about stopping for lunch, and there they were. Just…there. We laughed about it. We'd run into a group of hikers a few days earlier, had actually talked about them, these staircases…the trail is full of them, I guess. No one we'd met had actually seen them, which we thought was really fucking weird, since these were literally about twenty feet to the right of the trail."

He paused again, sipped his coffee. The other dog came in, joined his compatriot on the kitchen floor.

"One thing that everyone agreed on, somehow, was that if you came across 'em, you should stay away," he took a deep breath. "The clearly didn't – don't – understand. It's impossible to stay away from them. I would even go so far as to say it's _wrong_ to stay away."

"So, what did you do, Fred? You and Tim, what did you do?" Mulder's voice was reverent, nearly a whisper.

"We climbed them, of course. Tim had done it before, as you know, way up in Maine, near the end of the trail, back in the late '80s. I think he was gone for what? Three weeks that time?" Fred sighed. "We tore up them at a run…and the next thing I remember, I was sitting on a low hill near Wind Gap, my pack on my back. The sun was just rising. I was over forty miles south from where we climbed those stairs."

"And you'd been missing for nearly a month," Scully finished, closely examining the man's face. The mind was adept at negating both physical and mental trauma in a variety of ways. Selective and short-term memory loss was one of the best, in her experience. "With no memory of what had happened to you."

_You would know, wouldn't you? _She thought, feeling the old mixture of anger and panic bubble up inside of her. After all this time, she still wasn't sure which holes in her memory were her mind's own protection and which memories had been forcibly taken from her. Or by whom.

"None," Fred sighed again, bending over to rub a dog's furry belly. "Honestly, Agent Scully, I felt fine. I felt _good. _There was water in my Camel bag and it was fresh. I didn't even question it. For a moment, I wondered where I was, but then I just started walking until I ran into a ranger's station. They flipped out, of course, the minute they realized who I was. And that Tim wasn't with me anymore."

"Were you worried about Tim at all, Fred? Are you worried about him now, after all this time?"

"I wasn't," the man answered. "The truth is, Agent Mulder, I haven't really been worried about anything since last fall, after I came back. It's as if…as if…a weight's been lifted. Please don't get me wrong, I still _care _about things, about people. Else, I wouldn't be trying to win Jo back, you know? But all that shit I was holding on to, that I think all of us hold on to, to varying degrees…it was just gone. Poof. Like Tim."

He laughed, and for the first time during the conversation, Scully felt a shiver down her back. She glanced over at Mulder and realized that, whatever else came afterwards, this interview was over in every significant way.

oooOOOooo

The lodging house he'd booked right off Media's main drag was nearly walking distance from Dudourge's house, and they spent the short car ride in comfortable silence.

"This is nicer than usual," Scully commented as they headed inside the residential-turned-boarding-house. She looked nervous, and he realized she might be concerned this was an attempt at…romance…or something.

"All the econo motels are by the highway. This is closer to everything we need to check out, including the Garrison family's house. We can even walk most of 'em," he shrugged, then added to assuage her discomfort. "I'm in the back room on the first floor; yours is nicer, but it's on the second floor. You'll have to take…THE STAIRS." He paused dramatically and was glad to see her face relax in several ways.

"I'll manage it without losing my head…or several weeks' worth of time," she replied dryly, but he could tell that she was pleased. The last thing he wanted was her to feel uncomfortable around him.

They got their room keys from the obliging landlady and stopped at the foot of the curved staircase. She started up them, dragging her suitcase alongside her. He watched her go, just enjoying the sight of her. She suddenly turned.

"I'm hungry, Mulder, and you promised me a cheese steak," her voice was mock-petulant, her mouth, teasing.

"I always keep my promises, Scully," he answered, something bouncing up and down in his throat. "There's a few pubs along Main Street. Let's freshen up, and meet down here around 7?"

"Sure, if I don't disappear when I get to the top of these," she retorted, and he chuckled as he made his way to his own room.


	4. Leading Somewhere

Chapter 4

She decided to go for it and get the cheese steak. Okay, it was the vegetarian version, but still delicious, a sandwich stuffed with sautéed mushrooms, onions and loads of gloopy cheese.

It felt elicit in comparison to her usual fare, but she was in an elicit sort of mood. She knew, deep in the most private core of herself, she'd never indulge the currently roaring need for a repeat of last night's activities, not while they were traveling for a case. She knew Mulder wouldn't either, despite his penchant for breaking nearly every listed rule in the history of the federal government. Sure, technically, the workday was over, but the Bureau was paying for their rooms.

She did wonder, however, what they would do about their…situation…once they got back to D.C. Mulder was just being Mulder, which was rather lovely, she had to admit, but also somewhat exasperating. He didn't seem to understand she needed a bit of reassurance. She wasn't entirely sure what she need reassurance about; it more that she wanted some sort of acknowledgement that he was glad about her showing up in his bedroom, in his bed.

The problem was, she didn't know exactly what she wanted from him. It was a bit unfair, she realized, to expect him to do something…when she wasn't entirely sure what it was she wanted him to do.

He didn't need to woo her; she was already wooed. None of the normal rules applied to them.

"You aren't allowed to actually refer to that as a 'cheese steak', Scully," his voice interrupted her reverie.

They were seated at side-by-side barstools in a trendy little gastropub. The place was slowly filling up with the Thursday night crowd, ready to start the weekend early, and she knew it would be too crazy to stay here for too long; but for now, it was pleasantly buzzing and energized.

"I can too, Mulder," she answered, taking a large bite of her sandwich. "It said right on the menu 'Mushroom Steak Sandwich.'"

"That's simply false advertising," he shook his head in mock sadness, and bit into his legitimate, meat-filled version. "Like 'alien stairs' or something similar."

"Fred Dudourge was weird, Mulder," she answered, trying to figure out why, exactly, the guy and his serene manners off-put her.

"Totally weird, Scully," he answered. "Who has dogs that don't bark at all?"

"I want to talk to his wife. Ex-wife. Whatever," she answered, taking a long sip of her pale ale.

"They never actually got divorced," Mulder replied. "They weren't even legally separated, though according to the file, she's been living with her sister since last September."

"He's trying to win her back, though, based on what he said earlier," she mused. "I want to find out how realistic his pursuit is, though. Is he delusional, or does he actually have a chance?"

"That's the million-dollar question, isn't it, Scully?" He leaned closer, his elbow on the bar. He didn't touch her, but she could feel the heat coming off his body. She could smell his shaving cream.

"Mulder," she answered, her heart in her throat. This is what she wanted, right? Why was she so nervous? Was it because last night had seemed like some crazy fever dream, with no place in reality? Or because she was worried that if she let this happen, she would lose herself entirely to this man seated next to her?

Did she care if she did?

She spoke at last. "He didn't seem delusional, fine. But we don't have the whole story yet. There's still a lot of ground to cover. His wife, what his actual relationship with Tim Garrison was, hell, maybe even what _her _relationship with Garrison was, what the rangers thought of him when he stumbled into their station, and most importantly -"

"The stairs," Mulder finished.

"No! Not the stairs! I want to talk to the ER staff that treated him the night he was found, or returned to society, or whatever. The stairs, Mulder! This doesn't have anything to do with those stairs, even if they actually exist. We only have Dudourge's word for it, given that he could only provide a general overview of where he and Garrison were on the trail. He isn't an experienced long-distance hiker, remember?"

Mulder paused for a moment and looked at her just a little too long for her to be entirely comfortable. Then, very deliberately, he reached out and took her hand, turning it palm-up in her own. He ran his pointer finger down the center of her laugh line, her lifeline.

"Scully," he finally spoke. She left her hand where it was, cradled between his palm and his finger. "The stairs _are_ important. I don't know what's going on, not yet, but there's something there, believe me."

"It's crazy, though, Mulder," she sighed, her voice gentle. "Stairs that lead nowhere?"

"Everything leads somewhere, eventually, Scully," he replied, his hands warm around hers. "Remember?"

She was beginning to think maybe, he was right.


	5. Invisible Scars

**Chapter 5 – Invisible Scars**

She awoke earlier than usual Friday morning, just as the bluish dawn light filtered through the lacy curtains of her temporary second-floor bedroom window, feeling refreshed and well-rested. There was something to be said to have slept in a real bed while working a case, rather than the usual motel monstrosities, and she silently thanked Mulder to finding this place.

She dressed in a pair of leggings, a tee shirt and a sweater, throwing on her battered sneakers. She wasn't a runner, like Mulder – she enjoyed yoga and strength-training far more – but the morning looked like it was going to be a beautiful one and there was little to do until their first appointment, which was with Tim Garrison's wife and adult son, at 10:30. A brisk walk in the cool spring air sounded exactly right to her.

She headed downstairs, greeting the cheerful proprietor briefly, as the woman was setting out breakfast and coffee for her guests, then headed out the door. Media was a pretty, hilly little town, and she worked up a light sweat over the course of a half hour. The sleepy suburban streets were hers alone at first, then became dotted with other walkers and runners, dog walkers and young parents in business suits ushering toddlers to preschool.

She hit Main Street right around seven, wanting a hot cup of tea and breakfast. She came upon the Grey Dove Café - where, she knew, Joanne Dudourge was a manager. She and Mulder had an appointment with Fred's wife later today, but as Scully stood by the glass storefront, she saw a curvy, light-skinned black woman, an apron over her white tee shirt and jeans, dark braids wound neatly on top of her head, emerge from a back room in the little bakery, carrying a tray of muffins, and decided to say hello early, if a bit informally.

"Morning! How's it going today?" The woman greeted her, filling the display case with pastries.

"Great, thanks. It smells wonderful in here," Scully answered.

"We make everything almost daily, from scratch, on premises," Joanne replied, grinning. "It makes a difference."

"I'm sure. I'd love a tea with milk please, and a slice of banana bread, if my nose isn't deceiving me?"

The woman laughed. "It's not. It's just cooled enough for slicing, so perfect timing on your part. Have a seat, I'll bring everything over to you in a few."

The woman arrived with her order, grinning, and set it down. "You're visiting, right?"

"Yes, how did you know?" Scully cupped her mug of tea, breathed it in. This was no bag of Lipton's. This place did things right. She grinned back.

"Because it's too damned early," the woman laughed. There was something about her Scully really liked. "I know everyone who comes in here before 8 a.m. After that, it's a madhouse, we get tons of foot traffic and passersby. But 7 a.m. on a weekday? I know my regulars, and you aren't one. Not yet, at least." She paused as the door opened on three women in workout gear, chatting with each other, came inside.

"See? That's Lisa, Debbie and Faye, coming from their Pilates class," she nodded and waved at the trio as a young man bustled out of the back to take their orders. "John, who's crazy enough to live here but work in New York, will be by in about…seven minutes. He's gotta get that early train, you know?"

Scully laughed around a mouthful of still-warm banana bread. "Any interest in a steady paycheck from the federal government? Your powers of observation would come in handy, believe me." She swallowed and cleared her throat. "We actually have an appointment later this afternoon, Mrs. Dudourge. My name is Dana Scully, I'm one of the federal agents investigating your husband's experience last fall, along with the disappearance of Timothy Garrison. I simply ran into this place during my morning walk and remembered you worked here. But…I really just wanted a good cup of tea."

She waited, examining the woman's face as she did. Joanne Dudourge didn't look put out at all, though her smile shrunk a little at Scully's words. "Well, you came to the right place, then, Dana. Or should I call you Agent Scully?"

"'Dana' is fine, Mrs. Dudourge. I'm not here in any official capacity, and I really don't want to take up your time now."

"It's a crazy situation, Dana. And please, call me Jo, even if you have to switch back later for the formal interview." To her surprise, the woman took a seat across from her. Her face was open and guileless.

"There's no need. Fred offered his first name too," she responded, amused.

"Freddie and I, two peas in a pod," she grinned across the table, an expression that reached all the way to her eyes. Scully saw true affection in her face when she mentioned her estranged husband. She began to wonder how estranged they were.

"We met about ten years ago, at a graduation party at Temple. We both went there but studied totally different things and moved in different circles. Neither of us was even supposed to be at that party, and we didn't even start dating until a year or two later, but we just…you know? Right away, we were grooving."

"I know," Scully answered, thinking of standing in the pouring rain in an Oregon cemetery, laughing her head off, as Mulder explained it was Billy Miles who'd killed all those kids all those years ago. Yeah, she knew.

"Anyway, everything was good, really good, when we were friends, then lovers, then married. Oh, we fought, but basically, we just got on," she stopped for a moment, toying with her wedding ring. She looked up and called out to a clean-shaven, harried looking guy in a suit who was heading out the door. "Have a great day, John!"

Scully waited, not wanting to shift the other woman's focus. The banana bread was ridiculous.

"Freddie and I just worked right, is what I'm saying, but…he had a really, really hard time when Orion shut down. It was messed up, seriously messed up. They all showed up for work one day and the place was locked up, all the bigwigs gone. No notice, no severance. And it just hit him _hard._" She took a deep breath, then continued.

"I don't talk shit, and I really don't like talkin' shit about people I love. And I love Freddie. There's no doubt anymore that we're getting back together, even though I'm still living at my sister's – for now. But Fred…Fred's kinda always had it easy, you know? Oh, he works hard, he does. He's working his butt off to get me back, harder than he needs to – don't tell him that, of course. But a lot of things in his life have just been easy, you know? He didn't know how to cope with it. And _I _tried to be sympathetic, but, well, it was a job! Not the end of the world. I was taught to keep going, even when things got tough. Freddie, he just didn't have those skills."

"He got mean. Really, really mean. He was looking for something to tear down, the way he felt _he'd _been torn down. He was relentless. It was…shocking, really shocking, how this easygoing guy went from zero to sixty. That's…that's the only reason I'm not home yet. He's gotta prove to me that he's not gonna go nuts the next time something serious goes down. Because life's unpredictable," she shrugged. "You want the person next to you to have your back."

"How did he seem when he got back?" She was intentionally staying away from Tim Garrison. This woman wanted to talk about her husband, so Scully was going to let her.

"Good ol' Freddie," she grinned again, a sudden thing. She was very pretty. "Even…even the shock of it, when I had…I mean we all thought…" she trailed off, brushing tears from her cheeks, shook her head, as if to clear it. "He had been gone for so long, nearly a month. They…they told me, even if they did find him alive, he'd be in scary shape." She looked out the glass front of the café, waved at a teenager walking an enormous, fluffy dog. "But he wasn't. He was _fine. _They kept him for a few nights at the hospital near where the found him, but I think it was because they couldn't sort out what had happened to him. He was a medical mystery, I think. He looked exactly the same as he did when he left, no weight loss, no dehydration, nothing. And he was his old self, Dana. Calm, cheerful. But even more…I didn't see a trace of the man who'd basically thrown a two-month-long fit when things didn't go exactly as planned. It was the first thing he said to me, you know? Right after he told me he loved me, he said, 'Jo, that huge anger I had is gone…completely gone.' It's like something took it from him, wherever he was out there, in the woods." She shook her head.

_Hopefully, it wasn't killing Tim Garrison that chilled him out, _Scully thought, sipping the dregs of her tea. It was time to head back.

Joanne stood, drying her face on her apron. "Sorry, I got wrapped up and intruded on your breakfast. I guess I'll see you later today, something more formal?" She laughed, and Scully nodded.

"Thanks for your time, Joanne, I really appreciate it," she handed the woman her empty mug and plate, at her prompting. "Almost as much as I appreciate that banana bread."

"I'll grab you a piece to take with you," she answered. "There's one more thing about Freddie. I've actually never mentioned this to anyone, the doctors, the cops, the park rangers. Mostly because…well, I can't prove it, most of it. But it's true." She took a deep breath and looked directly at Scully. "Freddie and I, well, we've been…together…since he's been back. I've noticed something about his body. And, I don't know how to explain this, Dana. His scars are shrinking. Some are completely gone."

"What do you mean, Joanne? Wounds he had when they found him?"

"No, no. I mean…okay, so he tore the inside of his left hip open one year during a scrimmage soccer game a bunch of us were playing on Thanksgiving, he went skidding across wet grass and caught on something. He was fine, of course, but he had a pretty nasty scar from it, about three, four inches long, all ragged looking. It's basically gone now. He's had that scar for five, six years, it's never changed. And obviously, not many people see that one. There are others, too, not as big but the same thing. He also never seems to have any cuts, or scabs, or anything on his body anymore at all. He gardens, he runs, he plays soccer, he bikes. The dogs, for God's sake! But nothing."

"It's like he came back with not only his mind healed…but his body, too."

oooOOOooo

Mulder was waiting on the porch steps when she got back, wearing a pair of running shorts and a sweaty tee shirt. He looked pretty damn good to her. She couldn't help it.

"Wandering the streets so early, Scully?"

"It was a productive morning, Mulder," she answered, handing him a coffee and a small white pastry bag. "Be nice, or I'll take your banana bread away."

"You _have_ been productive," he took a swig of the coffee and ate half the banana bread in one bite. "Ahhh."

"That's not the half of it," she answered, plopping down next to him, very aware of all of the places their bodies touched. "I procured those at The Grey Dove, where –"

"- Joanne Dudourge works," he nodded, smiling. He had crumbs on his lips. She barely resisted brushing them off.

"It wasn't intentional, but she had a lot to say about her husband…" she ran quickly through their conversation. At the end of it he sighed.

"Autophagy, scars healing…mental breaks and fixes…" he stopped, finished the last bite of pastry. "I wonder what she'll have to say about Tim Garrison. Speaking of, we ought to get ready to meet his wife and son. I need a shower."

"Me too," she answered.

"Care to join me, Scully?" He jostled her gently.

"Not on the taxpayers' dollars, Mulder," she responded, loath to move, his warm shoulder pressed against hers.

"That's not a hard 'no'. I may ask again," he turned towards her, his face very close to hers.

"You probably should," she said, then stood to go to her room alone, running her hand gently through his hair as she went.


	6. Mantlepiece Memories

**Chapter 6 – Mantlepiece Memories**

The Garrisons, Alice and Derek, were less enthusiastic to welcome two FBI agents into their house than Fred Dudourge had been. Well, it was really Alice's house, not her son's; Derek, who was twenty-four according to their files, had his own apartment in center city Philly.

They weren't unpleasant, no; though the son did give off the air of someone with a list of far more important and interesting things to do than to sit in his mother's living room, drinking coffee with a pair of federal employees. His mother, a tall, willowy woman with a long, faded, red braid draped across one shoulder, was less diffident, but Mulder saw a casual sort of resignation in the woman's entire demeanor. She didn't think her husband was coming back. And she'd given up caring somewhere along the way. To her, this conversation was useless.

"Mrs. Garrison," he leaned forward from his seat on the couch, "I know this must be difficult –" he was interrupted by a snort from Derek.

"It's not difficult, it's _pointless,_" the young man was standing, leaning against the wall near the fireplace, his arms folded across his chest in the oldest recognizable defensive posture. "My father isn't coming back. It's been…what? Seven, eight months? Nope, he's gone. For good."

"I hate to ask, Mr. Garrison, but do you think your father is still alive?" Scully spoke up to Mulder's right, slightly turned towards the Garrison kid, her red hair as bright as Alice's was muted.

"Agent Scully, Tim's not the sort of –" Alice Garrison attempted to answer, but was silenced prematurely

"Oh, he's alive alright," Derek, again, interrupting. "He's out there, somewhere. Dad always had an itch, you know."

"Derek!" Alice tugged fretfully at the end of her braid.

"Not like…that," Derek rolled his eyes, which Mulder could see softening as he looked at his mother. "Nah, he was always crazy about you, Mom. But he was also just…crazy." He sighed, started fiddling with a few of the photos crowding the mantlepiece. "See?" He held one of the frames out, and Scully jumped up and walked towards him, hand outstretched. Mulder stood behind her, admiring the curve of her neck briefly before focusing on the photograph in her hand.

It appeared to be about fifteen years old, if the young boy with the floppy golden hair in the picture was, in fact, Derek Garrison. The Garrison family was standing on the deck of a fishing boat, the blue sea stretching out behind them, their skin nut-brown and hair wind-tossed. Alice and Derek with grinning half towards the camera, and half towards the patriarch of the family, who was standing bare-chested and akimbo, an enormous swordfish, still attached to a fishing line, hoisted over his head. Tim Garrison exuded a sense of reckless, natural athleticism and dangerous playfulness.

"Your father likes to have a good time, Mr. Garrison?"

"Yeah, yeah, he does…but he never messed around on my mom, you know?"

Mulder wondered why it was so important for the young man to reiterate this point. He knew Scully was wondering as well.

"That's the second time you mentioned that, Mr. Garrison," Scully handed the photo over her shoulder to him, and Mulder took it, examining it closely. He wandered over to the fireplace, put it back on the shelf with the others. There were at least eight or nine family photographs lining the mantlepiece. He kept one ear on Scully's conversation with the Harrisions and began examining the other frames.

He picked up one that showed a young Tim Garrison, probably the same age as his son was now, sporting an enormous mustache and grin to match, holding his infant son in a hospital room. He placed the fishing picture next to it, his eyes darting back-and-forth between the two. His eyes traveled further down the mantlepiece, searching…then he found what he was looking for. He sighed, picking up a third photo, this one showing a teen-aged Derek, standing between his parents, about five years older than he was in the first photo. The family was dressed for some sort of summer party, Alice in a flowery dress, the men in chinos and open-collared polo shirts.

"Scully," he called out, wondering if she would spot what he had. To him, there was a story that screamed out from the three photos, loud and clear.

He was certain she would see it too.

oooOOOooo

"This doesn't make any sense, Mulder," she was seated across from him, stabbing a salad at random, as if it had offended her somehow. "They must be lying or confused."

"Actually, I think it does, in a way, Scully, and I don't think they are," he leaned forward. Despite her incredulity, she hadn't disappointed him: she had seen what he had seen, in those three family photos scattered on the small ledge over the Garrisons' fireplace. And, even more importantly, in a fourth photo Alice had procured when asked.

Taken chronologically, they told a strange yet compelling story: Tim Garrison, a beaming, new father, holding his infant son. Sitting in his tee shirt and jeans, his '70s facial hair not yet outdated. His skin unmarred. Flash forward a decade or so, and we see the boy the baby has become, grinning up at his wild, adventurous father, whose tan, bare chest bears a long, deep scar, starting just above his right clavicle, at the base of his neck, winding its way nearly to his navel. The last photo, which the agents had discovered was taken at Derek's eighth grade graduation five years later – and several months after Tim's first disappearance and reappearance – there was no sign of the scar at all, which should have been visible at the open collar of his polo shirt.

It was the fourth photo, however, that had really unsettled Scully.

Mulder had asked Alice if she had any photos of her husband, preferably bare-chested, in the months before his first disappearance, when Derek was in the eighth grade. She had paled, exchanged glances with her son.

"It's the scar, right? The one my dad go motorbiking when I was like nine," Derek had looked directly into Mulder's face, his gaze unwavering.

"It is," he had replied. Alice returned, pushing a loose photo into Mulder's waiting hand. He flipped it over, saw it had been printed in April '88, three weeks before Garrison disappeared the first time, and three months before the graduation photo was taken.

In this fourth picture, Tim and Derek were in the midst of building something; Tim held a band saw, Derek, a hammer, and they were surrounded by neatly stacked two-by-fours. Both were shirtless, sweating in the bright spring sun, grinning at the photographer, who he assumed was Alice.

And yes, there it was: the harsh, dark band of scar tissue, from throat to belly button, yes, slightly faded in comparison to the fishing photo, but still very visible.

"He still had it, you know," Alice had finally spoken, tugging on her hair again. "It just…had shrunk. A lot."

"Definitely, a lot," Derek had added, laughing nervously. "A lot, a lot." He gestured to his own torso, showing with his hands: his father's scar, once he'd returned, had shrunken to less than four inches.

"But that wasn't all," Alice had spoken, a final time. Her voice had sounded strong for the very first time during the interview.

"Mom," Derek, warning.

"That wasn't all…Tim…he also seemed _younger. _Like he was aging, but in reverse."

oooOOOooo

"It's not possible, Mulder, and you know it," Scully reiterated as they walked up the small stone path towards the bed and breakfast. They had a few hours before they had to meet with Jo Dudourge.

"You're a scientist, Scully, a doctor," he retorted. "You know we can't explain it all, cell regeneration, self-healing, auto-"

"It doesn't work that way, Mulder," she shook her head as they walked up the porch steps. "Certainly, the body can and does repair itself, however –"

Her cell phone interrupted her. She looked at him, then the screen. "Skinner," she mouthed, as she answered it.

"Good afternoon, sir," she greeted their boss, then listened, the crease between her eyes deepening every second she listed to what he had to say. "Yes. I understand. Their identities have been confirmed? Yes. One of us will head up there immediately."

She hung up the phone, her face grim.

"What is it?" He asked, but he already knew.

"It's Tim Garrison, and Patricia Rodgers, another one of the missing hikers. They've turned up, on one of northernmost parts of the trail, in New Hampshire. They're both alive and their vitals are stable. Rodgers' been missing even longer than Garrison, nearly a year. What the hell is going on, Mulder?"

"I don't know yet, Scully, but you're going to go up there, and use your considerable charm and clout to get permission to perform a physical exam on both of them, as soon as possible. And get someone to perform every test you can think of on all of their clothing, too."

"Me? But _you're _the one obsessed with the alien stairs, Mulder. Don't you think _you_ should go?" She gave him a sideways grin. She was standing very close to him. He would miss her when she left.

"But they've got Ben & Jerry's up there, Scully, you love ice cream, even if it's the tofu kind," he replied, and she laughed.

"That's Vermont, Mulder. Not New Hampshire."

"Whatever. You better get going, though. I'll take to Joanne, and let Alice and Derek know about Tim. Can you handle Patricia Rodger's family?"

She nodded, turned to go inside. He could see her mind already working, sorting out the data it had been provided, despite her incredulity, and he was suddenly struck with a wave of love than nearly felt like a gut punch.

"I'll miss you, Scully," the words were out before he could even consider them.

She turned, grinned a little, then surprised him: she strode back towards him, reached up, and stroked his cheek. Planted the briefest of kisses at the corner of his mouth.

"Yes," she said, and stepped away, as if she'd never been there. "I'll have to confirm the location of these alien stairs, so you'll be required to join me, to investigate."

And then she was gone, leaving him standing alone, a grin on his face.


	7. The Witching Hour

Scully was exhausted, in that bone-deep way that's impossible to shake off with only one good night's sleep. The sort of tiredness that lingers in your joints, fuzzes your focus, for several days afterwards.

She had arrived in Jackson, New Hampshire, roughly ten hours after her brief conversation with Walter Skinner, through a combination of train, shuttle and car. Bleary-eyed, over-caffeinated and underfed, she'd pushed her way into Memorial Hospital, the tiny facility where both Tim Garrison and Patricia Rodgers were being treated.

She got no further than the nurses' station; it was too late, they told her, nearly midnight, and the attending physician for both was already gone for the night. The patients were sleeping and stable. She could return in the morning, early, if she wanted, and get all the necessary information from the doctor, and meet with the patients directly.

She sighed, knowing that antagonizing the hospital staff would do no good. Instead, she asked for a copy of all available records, to take with her, as well as any tests that had already been performed or ordered on Garrison and Rodgers, and their belongings. And yes, she'd wait. The head night nurse rolled her eyes, but with grudging respect, fulfilled her request.

And now she was sitting, cross-legged, surrounded by open files, her laptop in front of her, it's bluish glow the brightest thing in the dim hotel room, which, in fact, was another little bed and breakfast; Jackson was pretty, touristy, one-street town, with a population of under a thousand. This place was equidistant between the trail and the hospital and suited her just fine.

She stretched and picked up a series of Polaroids that were set out in a neat line to the right of her, on the coverlet. They were photos of the hikers' clothing and boots, what they'd been wearing when a ranger had run into them half a day ago, cheerfully walking towards town. According to both Tim and Patricia's files, these were the exact same clothes they had been wearing when they disappeared, eight and eleven months ago, respectively.

"Not possible," she murmured, staring down at a photo of a red and black checked woman's shirt that belonged to Patricia Rodgers. It looked as if it had been pulled fresh from the dryer, wrinkle-free and clean. She leaned over and grabbed Rodgers' X-File, flipping through it quickly.

Patricia Rodgers, Trish to her friends and family, was forty-three years old. In her photos, she grinned up at Scully from under a short, dark, pixie haircut, her solid, stocky frame giving off a sense of endurance and strength. Scully wondered what she would have to say to her in a few short hours.

She leaned over on the other side of her, and picked a larger, hastily printed photo, this one taken by a ranger earlier today. She shivered involuntarily then chided herself. The photo was ridiculous and simple in composition: a free-standing flight of wooden stairs, painted a faded green color, sitting in the middle of the forest.

The ranger had come upon Garrison and Rodgers less than a hundred meters from them. According to the report, as quickly completed as the rest of the incident file, the hikers had found themselves standing at the foot of these stairs, side by side, surprised only by each other's presence. Garrison had wondered about Fred Dudourge; Rodgers had glanced around for her girlfriend, whom she'd been hiking with when she'd disappeared last spring.

She honestly didn't know what to think; it was the first real, tangible connection between the staircases and the disappearances – or rather, the reappearances – of the trail's hikers. She couldn't quite shake the feeling that this was some sort of elaborate game they were all playing – with each other and everyone else.

There was a soft rapping at her door.

She jumped. Glanced over at the bedside clock: 2:32 a.m. She smiled, almost laughed. Felt something click inside of her.

She opened the door, realizing she was shaking a little. She was still holding the large photo of the green staircase.

"Hey, Scully," Mulder stood, framed in the doorway, his clothing travel-rumpled and his hair askew.

"Mulder, it's the middle of the night," she answered. But she stepped backwards, allowing him to enter.

"The witching hour," he replied, shrugging off his suit jacket and tossing it onto a chair in the corner. "I see you've formed your incantation circle." He gestured to the concentric circles of paperwork and folders surrounding her laptop on the bed.

His unanticipated presence had filled the space – and her - with a zippy, light, nervous energy. She moved her laptop to the bedside dresser, started scooping up papers and organizing them as well as her befuddled mind allowed her to.

"Oh, I've got this for you, taken just yesterday morning, right where they found them," she turned back to him. He was just staring at her, his eyes and face soft. She handed him the photo of the stairs. "Exactly what you came all this way for, Mulder."

He took it, smiled distractedly at it, then dropped it to the floor.

"That's not why I came all this way, Scully," he answered, his voice somehow so familiar, yet entirely different. She wasn't tired at all anymore.

"No?" She kept her voice neutral, clutching a haphazard stack of papers and folders against her chest. Something deep inside of her, a part of her she'd mostly ignored the past few years, was surfacing. She felt it, clambering up and over the carefully constructed walls she'd built for so long.

"No, Scully, it's not." He was waiting; waiting for her.

"These are going to take forever to organize, Mulder," she sighed, setting the pile on the floor, stepping towards him. She placed a hand on his chest, felt his heart beating quickly, in tandem with hers.

"What about the taxpayers, Scully? They'll be so disappointed in the allocation of their funds." He grinned, placed his hand on her cheek.

"I've got my credit card, Mulder. I'll pay for the damned room myself." And she pulled him down towards her, the bits and pieces of their case temporarily forgotten.


	8. Early Morning Thoughts

**Chapter 8 – Early Morning Thoughts**

**A/N: Hi everyone! Thanks so much for reading, favoriting and following this little (well, not so little NOW) TXF story of mine. I really appreciate that you all are following along on this case with Mulder and Scully, which will definitely continue being a combination of a "monster-of-the-week" episode and details of their burgeoning romance. I promise to update regularly, and that I have a pretty good sense of where the story is going (and how it turns out!). ~ CeeCee**

Even in the most usual of circumstances – assuming he'd ever consider the word "usual" in connection with the topsy-turvy existence he led, on the fringes of what most of society deemed appropriate – he was neither a heavy nor lengthy sleeper.

But now, watching the sun begin to color the sky outside through the curtains on the window, listening to his partner's steady, even sleeping breathes, he was as far from sleep as he'd ever been. Every synapse and cell were firing away, galvanized by a heady combination of Scully's enthusiastic, very physical nearness and his mind's love of unraveling a mystery, the stranger the better - and this one _was_ strange.

He understood – even if, sometimes, it was with chagrin and mild irritation – why he had earned the nickname "Spooky" all those years ago at Quantico. What he found amusing about most people's perception of him was that he'd hardly noticed it at first, when he was a young man. It took him some time, some self-awareness, over the years, to appreciate that all of the world's nooks and crannies, the ones that most fascinated him, were obscured or ignored by almost everyone else. It wasn't just that others were incurious; they didn't even want to acknowledge those places _existed. _For him, they were just part of the world everyone lived in. It had taken time to realize his interest in and insistence of recognizing them offended and frightened many people.

What made Scully different, from the very beginning, was while she was deeply steeped in incredulity regarding the details of such spaces, she never, not once, denied their existence. Though they almost always disagreed as to the details that created the landscape and topography of these mysterious places and situations, she was willing to travel the hills and valleys of them with him, as an active participant, questioning and challenging him every step of the way.

And he loved her all the more for it.

He laughed to himself, watching the sky turn from deep indigo to purple and orange, lightening with every moment. Scully turned towards him in her sleep, placing a warm palm on his bare shoulder. He brushed his fingers lightly over the tips of hers, careful not to wake or startle her.

How different she was from the other two women he believed he'd loved (maybe he just _wanted_ to believe he was in love before this…). Both Phoebe and Diana were firm believers in those wonderful, weird places where Mulder felt most alive; he had truly felt a kinship with each of these past lovers, whom he navigated the stranger and more fantastical happenings of this world – and beyond – with a professional and intellectual ease that, frankly, he sometimes missed.

However, in both cases, he had erred greatly; being of the same mind intellectually and professionally didn't equate emotional compatibility. He'd had his heart broken twice by confusing these things, once with infidelity and the next, with indifference.

He glanced down at Scully's face and thought hard. There wasn't anyone more loyal or passionate, when she was committed to something or someone. But the biggest difference between she and the two women he was currently pondering was a simple one: she was his _friend. _The most crucial, meaningful friend he'd ever had. There was something so wonderfully _sure_ about her and her presence in his life.

He knew she would always be there, somehow. It was thrilling to look down and see her bare, freckled shoulder peeping from under the coverlet, to no longer have to guess the way the angles and curves of her body would feel like under his hand. These felt like extras, additions, that had been provided to him, by some sort of miraculous frisson, to underline the devotion they already had for each other.

"Mulder, stop staring at me," suddenly, one blue eye popped open, catching him slightly off-guard.

"I'm not staring, Scully; I'm…musing," he answered, trying his best not to laugh.

She pushed herself into a semi-seated position, letting the blankets fall where they may. Her revealed body was a pleasant distraction.

"What a disaster," she sighed, then laughed herself. "Not you, Mulder; that." She gestured to her formerly tidy case folders, victim medical files and her laptop, which was precariously set on the bedside dresser. She leaned over, pushing it away from the edge and closer to safety. He couldn't help himself; he leaned over and ran a hand down the length of her spine.

She shivered and turned towards him, half-smiling, but with that telltale crease between her eyes. She was already working, navigating the day.

"I want to get to the hospital early, before the Garrisons arrive, to talk to Tim," she looked over at him, leaning back against the headboard. "How did they take the news?"

He propped himself up next to her, smoothing her tousled hair down on the side. She briefly leaned into his palm, then sat back up, alert, waiting for his response.

"Well, in the case of Derek Garrison, with ringing indifference. He clearly loves his father but is…rather unimpressed…with his reappearance. The wife, however, was a bit more enthusiastic," he answered. "They are flying in midday today, so you have some time."

"Patricia Rodgers' girlfriend and stepdaughter were already notified, of course, and they were both eager to see her. I don't know that we'll beat them there this morning, but we can try," she answered him, and he could see her mind working. "Those files, Mulder, they make absolutely no sense, from the state of the clothing they were found in, to their vitals, to their general health levels. I doubt either of them will need another overnight in the hospital, if it's all accurate."

"The chowder thickens," he intoned. "New England, obviously, not Manhattan."

"And _you_ still need to tell me about your follow up interview with Jo Dudourge," she tossed out at him, then flung the covers from herself, leapt up energetically. He certainly didn't mind the view.

"I'm not sure I can intelligently articulate much of anything at the moment, Scully," he answered. "At least, not anything related to the case. I do have some choice words on other matters, however."

She turned around and smirked.

"Excellent, Mulder. Let's convene in the shower for a fully summary."


	9. Around the Bend

_Mulder needs to sleep his own room tonight,_ she thought wryly as the elevator doors slide open with a muted ding, depositing her in the quiet, early morning hush of the small ICU hallway she'd unsuccessfully tried to penetrate a mere six or seven hours ago. _There's no amount of caffeine that will help at this point._

She grinned and stifled a yawn simultaneously, deliberately pushing aside any attempt at a complicated analysis of what had been unfurling between her and her partner the past few days. She was trying to just _listen_, rather than trying to control it all. It was freeing. And utterly terrifying. Good thing she was nearly nonsensical with exhaustion and was required to save what little focus she had for the job.

Despite the slippery, often indistinct nature of most X-files, she'd always found something to ground herself within these cases. Right now, she was eager to speak with both Tim Garrison and Patricia Rodgers. She firmly believed that one or both of them would slip up, say something that would provide a clue to where they'd been all this time, and create a tangible connection between them and the other missing persons cases along the trail. And, if their words didn't say much, she was hoping their physical states would speak volumes.

Mulder had taken only one thing with him from her files: the slightly blurred image of the stairs that were less than ten miles from here. He made arrangements, even at this early hour, to meet up with the park ranger who'd found the two hikers and who agreed to take him to the staircase himself. She resolutely ignored the small bubble of unease that danced in her stomach as she watched him, dressed in casual hiking gear, pull out of the hotel's small parking lot in his rental car, with a grin and a jaunty salute. Because, obviously, there was nothing to worry about. Even if Mulder decided to climb up and down those stairs half a dozen times or more.

_Right? _

No time for pointless worries right now. After a brief stop at the nurses' station, she proceeded into ICU. Rodgers was in Room 2, Garrison in Room 5. There were two women – well, really, one of them was really just a girl – sitting on two padded chairs outside of Rodgers' room. There was no mistaking their familial connection: both had sandy light brown hair, scooped up into sloppy buns on the top of their heads. Both wore large, squarish glasses and had the same upturned nose and wide mouth. This had to be Patricia Rodgers' partner, Diane, and Diane's daughter, Jamie.

The teenager spotted her first, looking up from her tattered Stephen King novel.

"Mom," the girl nudged her mother, who looked up at Scully. The woman's face was dazed and tired. She put her own paperback book down.

"Good morning," Scully began, holding out her hand. "I'm Agent Scully, from the FBI. I'm here to interview Patricia Rodgers."

"Diane Farrow," the woman stood and took her hand. "Trish's partner. This is our daughter, Jamie." She instinctively tugged and twisted her hair free of its tie, rearranging it with a sigh. "The doc is in with her now, I just got booted out." She grinned weakly. "I can't believe she's back. That she's _okay._" She suddenly covered her face and started sobbing, sitting back down unceremoniously.

"Hey, Mom, it's okay," Jamie slid over, put her arm around her mother's shoulder. "Chill, yeah?"

"FBI, huh?" The teen half-grinned up Scully, rubbing her mother's back. "You in the 'super weird shit' department, next to Area 51, or something?"

"Jamie! Language!" Diane barked at her daughter through tears. The girl rolled her eyes and Scully stifled laughter.

"Actually, Jamie, that's closer to the truth than you might expect," she shrugged, sat on the other side of the girl. "My job definitely involves a lot of…super weird…happenings. Including what happened to Trish last year, and the fact that she's back. My job is to sort it all out, so it doesn't happen again."

The door to Rodgers' room swung open and the doctor popped his head out. He noted Scully's presence and his eyes narrowed a little. She sighed. It would be a hell of a lot easier if the hospital staff cooperated with her, but that wasn't always a given. In fact, it was usually the opposition.

"Hello, Agent Scully. Dr. Roy Baker. My staff advised me you would be arriving today," he nodded perfunctorily at her, then focused on Diane. "Miss Farrow, can you please come with me for a moment?" He ushered the other woman into the room and pointedly shut the door on Scully and Jamie.

The two of them sat in momentary silence. Scully couldn't formally interview the teen with her mother present anyway, but she was hoping, maybe, the girl would talk on her own.

"What a douche," Jamie rolled her eyes again, nodding towards the closed door. "He acted like me and my mom were, like, an inconvenience, when we first got here. Like we were interrupting all of his little experiments on Trish, when, you know, like, we just wanted to see she was _alive._"

"You must be so relieved," Scully started. "She was gone for a long time."

"Yeah," Jamie blinked hard. She was trying not to cry. "Like, my whole freshman year of high school, basically. I've got advanced algebra, and my mom is shit at math. I'm blaming all of my 70s on Trish. She promised to help. I suck at math, it's bringing my GPA down." She barked laughter. It had a slightly hysterical tinge to it.

Scully paused, assessing which direction to take the conversation. "Yeah, I'd be pissed if one of my parents just up and disappeared with no explanation, especially when I was still in school. I don't blame you."

The girl looked up at her, startled. "But…but she didn't do it on _purpose._ It, like, wasn't her fault, you know? She just…disappeared."

"Tel me about it," Scully said softly.

"Mom said it was literally the freakiest thing," the girl turned towards her, leaning forward. She wanted to tell this story. "I was visiting my dad for a couple of days, so I wasn't actually there, okay? We all love to hike and camp, and they wanted to check out this one part of the Trail we'd never been to, to see if would be a good spot for all three of us to go. They're better hikers than me, you know? Trish, especially, she can walk all freaking day if you let her." The girl smiled a little, continued.

"We live in New Haven, and this was somewhere up near Waterbury, so it was, like, a weekend thing. They'd check it out while I was with my dad, and if it seemed cool, the three of us would go back a few weeks later."

"Except. Except Trish disappeared," Jamie shook her head, and a few of the tears she'd been holding back splashed down her cheeks. She brushed them away as if they annoyed her. "It was the middle of the first day. Everything was totally normal, it was great weather, my mom said. Then they found those _stupid_ stairs. My mom said she was weirded out by them, but, that could be whatdoyocallit, hindsight, right? Trish was all about them. She thought it was hilarious. Weird, yah, but funny too. I'm guess you've got pictures of them, right? I know my mom had a few on her camera."

"Anyway, Trish wanted to climb up them, see what was what. Mom convinced her to leave them alone, at first. She said they were probably gross, and not safe. Like, they were rotten, or something, and might collapse. My mom would _totally _say something like that, you know? She worries about the most random things."

"What happened then, Jamie?"

"Trish gets my mom to take a few pics of them, maybe ask other hikers what they're all about. They barely walk anywhere when Trish said she dropped her bandana by the stairs. She tells my mom she'll be right back and runs around the bend to get it. My mom hears her footsteps, right? Like she's going up those fucking stairs. So she runs back towards them too."

Now the girl looked scared, really scared, even though her stepmother was safe and sound in the next room.

"And she was gone?" Scully asked the question though she already knew the answer.

"Yeah, she was totally gone. Poof!" Jamie laughed again. It wasn't a comfortable laugh. "But you know what else, Agent Scully?"

"What, Jamie?"

"They were also gone. The _stairs. _Like they had somewhere to go, and they took Trish with them."


	10. Wherever You Go

**Chapter 10 – Wherever You Go**

Mulder pulled into the small parking lot on the side of the trail. Really, it was little more than a deepening of the gravel shoulder of the road, big enough for a half dozen or so cars. There were only half that amount here presently. His own rental, a black SUV splattered in dried mud and the very distinctive white-with-green-racing-stripe car of a U.S. Forest Ranger.

The ranger himself was standing beside it, a tall lanky guy in his late fifties, who tipped his hat at Mulder as he crossed the space between them.

"Agent Mulder? Good to meet you. 'Bout time you guys get involved in all of this. I was relieved to get the call from your partner, let me tell you," the other man held Mulder's gaze for a long moment, and he could see both fear and frustration simmering underneath the stated relief. "I hope it wasn't mishearing on my part, either, that your given name is 'Fox'. As someone named Hawk Cleary, I must admit a bit of a simpatico with you right away." The man laughed, his grin wide under a dark mustache going gray here and there.

"It is, indeed, Ranger Cleary. 'Fox and Hawk' – if this whole federal government gig goes tits' up, you and I could start an emo grunge band or whatever the kids are into these days," he shook the other man's hand, both of them chuckling.

"That, or a gin distillery, I think," the guy shook his head laughingly, then suddenly became all business. "We've got a good half hour's walk; this is as close as we can get with the vehicles. You up for it?"

"Crank up the Green Day on the boombox and pass the booze," Mulder deadpanned, and the ranger lead him towards the forest, laughing heartily.

oooOOOooo

Both he and Cleary were in pretty good shape, so they made great time; after about twenty-five minutes of hiking up a steady incline, Cleary turned back towards him.

"Right up there, just off the trail," he nodded towards the crest of a small slope they were quickly approaching. And once they topped the incline, there they were; these were literally at the top of the path, almost as if they were there to ascend to look out at the winding trail below them. _You could almost tell yourself that. Someone built them for something so harmless, possibly even useful. _

However –

"Totally weird vibes, man," Mulder muttered, his eyes raking up and down the mundane set of thirteen steps. He had been enjoying the hike, the moderate exercise through cool spring morning exactly what he needed, despite his exhaustion. Even the ranger's company had added to his sense of ease, the older man pleasant and interesting company.

"They _are_ strange, aren't they?" Cleary responded, his tanned forehead creasing behind his aviator-style sunglasses. "I ran into Rodgers and Garrison down there." He pointed past the stairs, down a somewhat rougher path heading in the same direction they were. "It's a further hike back to a station in that direction, so I looped back with them. They both were totally fine, but I recognized Rodgers almost right away. I knew she'd been missing for almost a year or something, and I could hardly believe it. Both of them acted like they'd been hiking for a few hours together or something." He shrugged, the creases deepening.

"Yeah," Mulder answered, inching closer to the stairs. He couldn't seem to help himself; though he'd lived through and seen so very many fantastic and odd things over the past two decades, since he founded the X-Files, this simple green staircase still felt strangely appealing and exotic.

"You can feel it too, right? That tug?" Cleary took his sunglasses off and polished them on the bandana around his neck. His eyes were troubled but glittering with excitement.  
"Right here, I mean." He tapped his temple, slid his glasses back on.

"Yeah," Mulder said again, then made a concerted effort to assess his surroundings. The stairs were straight ahead of them, worn, green-painted wood, about 100 feet away. On either side, back to front, was the trail. Surrounding them, were trees and brush. As they watched, a squirrel scampered straight up them, then quickly back down, his bushy tail curling and twitching wildly. "Hawke, you willing to walk over there with me? I think…I think we'll be okay, if we go together."

"Hmm, yeah," the ranger nodded. "They reappear together, sometimes, don't they? But they _always_ disappear on their own, don't they, Agent Mulder?"

"Indeed they do," they headed over towards the stairs. When they reached them, he raised both his hand and his eyebrow at the ranger. "Safety in numbers?" He suggested, and both men reached out together to touch the eighth or ninth riser.

The stairs thrummed with energy, something nearly electric. It felt wild. It felt _wonderful. _

Mulder thought of Scully's face, pulled his hand away. Cleary's palm was still resting on the riser, his eyes dreamy, unfocused. Mulder gently lifted it away and they cleared.

"Reaaaaallly weird vibes, Fox," the ranger said, laughing. Mulder could see he was shaking. "My god, I have seen some strange shit out here in my day, but this takes the freaking cake."

"Let's check around back."

"Right," Mulder responded and they walked towards the flat rear side of the staircase. Suddenly, his phone burred, like a wasp caught in his pocket. He was shocked he had service out here.

_Scully._

"Another thing that doesn't belong out here," Cleary chided, his face in the shadow of the staircase. He half-turned from the man with a sheepish shrug, answered.

"Mulder."

"Mulder, it's me." Scully's voice was tight with stress.

"What's up, Scully? You still at the hospital?"

He could hear Ranger Cleary moving around behind him, muttering to himself. He turned briefly, covering the mouthpiece. The man was staring up at the top of the staircase from behind it. Something had caught his eye. He turned back to the conversation.

"I am, Mulder. But we have a problem. A big one."

"What is it?"

"It's Tim Garrison. He's disappeared, Mulder. He's checked himself out. His son thinks he's coming back, for the stairs. I interviewed both he and Trisha Rodgers earlier, but when his family showed up, he was gone. He's coming back there, Mulder. He's coming back to them."

Mulder opened his mouth to answer her, then heard Cleary speaking behind him.

"Hey, Fox, gimme a boost, there's something on the top here…" the man grunted and Mulder turned back towards him, alarmed. "Aha! Never mind, this old ranger's still got –"

But what Ranger Hawke Cleary still had, Mulder would never know. His voice cut off, just as he pulled himself up on to the top riser. Like a soap bubble, both the man and the stairs disappeared, as if they'd never been there.

"Garrison's too late, Scully."


	11. Gone

**Chapter 11 – Gone**

**A/N: Thank you, readers, for reading this little fanfic of mine. You are a quiet bunch, but I can still see you! This is the penultimate chapter, then this case will be closed. But I had such a grand time writing it, there will likely be another one sometime soon! Xoxo, CeeCee**

She wouldn't sleep properly until this case was closed, it seemed.

After Mulder's abrupt statement, he'd hung up. As he often did. She didn't bother calling him back. She knew, in her gut, they had very little time left unimpeded. The forest ranger's disappearance would trigger far greater interest in these cases than there had been up until now, likely even by counterforces in the FBI itself.

She had asked – well, demanded – one of the small labs used for blood tests and other day-to-day procedurals in the hospital, and had been granted it. With the nearly simultaneous disappearances of Tim Garrison and Hawke Cleary, the hospital staff had become less reticent and more nervous.

They were out of their depth, and they knew it. What they didn't know, or at least she hoped they didn't: so was she. This entire case had felt like chasing shadows, or shadows of shadows. People, here and gone, stories and rumors and superstitions, but nothing real. Nothing tangible.

Well, she was going to do something about that. Or damned well try to.

She was nervous, too. Nervous because, though he had slipped from their grasps, she _had _been able to meet Tim Garrison briefly this morning, before his wife and son had arrived. After she'd spoken to Trish Rodgers and her family, she's stepped just down the hallway to talk to Garrison.

He'd been in the middle of a standard blood draw and vitals taken by the nurse on duty. His grin had been wide and honest and slightly crazed. He'd resembled, even from his hospital bed, the photo of himself as a new father a quarter of a decade ago far more than the man past fifty he actually was.

"Well, hi there! Who're you? I'm prone to redheads, truth be told," he had grinned around the nurse's dark head, which was bent over his arm, as he drew blood.

"Good morning, Mr. Garrison," she had answered, slight steel in her voice. "My name is Agent Scully, I work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and what you actually seem prone to, sir, is disappearing in the woods."

The nurse had snorted, grinned up at her. He had then pulled Garrison's gown away from his chest to listen to his heart, and Scully's mouth had gone dry.

Because Timothy Garrison's nasty scar was gone. Completely, as if it had never been there at all.

oooOOOooo

And now, here she was, as the late afternoon waned into the evening, trying to make sense of any of it. She had the blood samples the amused nurse had taken from Garrison this morning, before he'd done a runner. She also had Trish Rodgers' samples.

And what she was finding was…interesting. High levels of macrophages. And collagen. She pressed her eyes to the microscope in front of her, sighed at the level of healthy, red blood cells in the sample.

Everything pointed to Garrison and Rodgers having been somewhere oxygen-rich, almost excessively so. She took her glasses off, rubbed her itchy eyes. Glanced around the silent, empty lab.

She'd spoken to Mulder briefly, shortly after the ranger's disappearance. She didn't _not_ believe him, but also…people didn't wink out of existence. Nor did entire structures.

"Oxygen-rich…." She stared into space, thinking. There was a very recent trend in the US, though the idea was centuries old: oxygen bars, places where one could literally load up on good old air. There were dozens of claimed benefits, most of them nonsense, in her humble opinion, other than perhaps with mountain climbers, in cases of altitude sickness.

Otherwise, it was at least as reckless as consuming too much alcohol, though many proponents claimed it aided in cell repair, mental clarity, increased brain, lung and heart function, a reduced risk of cancer, and more.

"Ridiculous," she muttered. "But…what if…in a controlled environment…?" She wondered. What if...what if this was the result of a series of underground experiments, conducted by the government?

"Now you sound like Mulder," she said, a little louder.

"You certainly do, Scully, especially the 'talking to yourself' part."

She jumped up and turned. There he was, framed in the doorway, a takeout bag in his hand. He looked exhausted.

"Mulder! Jesus!" She pushed her glasses up onto her forehead. "What's in the bag?"

"Nothing exciting, but it's edible, and, thankfully, tofu-free," he grinned, but she could see the tiredness refusing to complete budge from his countenance. "What Spooky-worthy conspiracy theory are you mulling over, Scully?"

"Just, well, look at this," she stepped aside for him to peer through the microscope. He didn't have her level and depth of knowledge, but he had more than a layman's understanding cellular biology.

"Lots of red blood cells," he stated flatly, then glanced up at her. His face was close enough she could see something he wasn't saying to her quite yet, something not so pleasant. "So…lots of oxygen. Lots of…repair."

"Yes," she answered, and she couldn't help herself, she was too tired, and this whole case was too weird. She brushed her hand across his cheek. He sighed, closed his eyes. "This is from Tim Garrison's blood draw this morning, right before he disappeared. And that's not all, Mulder. His scar was completely gone. Completely."

Her partner straightened up, sighed again, a different sort of sigh this time.

"Yeah, Scully, I know."

"There's something you're not saying, Mulder. What is it?"

"There's lots I'm not saying, Scully, not because I am trying to keep it from you. Just because I'm so tired I'm almost falling over, not to mention, I saw a man, a decent guy by all accounts, disappear right in front of my face eight hours ago, and our compatriots at the Bureau made me tell the story over and over and over –"

"It just sounds so…implausible…Mulder, you must realize that," she answered, fully understanding that the blood sample slides she'd been pouring over were just as implausible, if less dramatic. "It's not that I don't believe you, it's just –"

"Tim Garrison is dead, Scully," Mulder interrupted.

"What? How?"

"C'mon, let's go eat these sandwiches. There's a nice courtyard off the ER, and the sun's still out. I'll tell you everything." He was steering her towards the door.

"Does his family know?" She grabbed the sleeve of his hiking fleece. She thought of Garrison, so full of life and bullshit, earlier this morning, looking and acting half his given age.

"Yeah, they do. Let's go eat something, Scully, and swap conspiracy theories. We might solve this one yet, I think."


	12. Deep Breath

**Chapter 12 – A Deep Breath**

**A/N: This is the penultimate chapter, readers! I promise I'll wrap the case AND the budding romance between our agents up in the final chappie! **

They sat on a little metal bench in the tiny gazebo right outside the emergency room, munching their sandwiches in companionable silence for a few blessed, still moments. He was completely spent and couldn't comprehend doing much more than this. Which is why he hated asking his partner,

"Scully, I want you –"

" – to do Garrison's autopsy. Yeah, okay, Mulder, but I need to find a bunk to get a few hours shut eye, or I'll wind up slicing the corpse to ribbons." She yawned, and he could hear her jaw crack. She had a wisp of lettuce stuck to the corner of her mouth. "Where was he found?"

Mulder sighed, rubbed his eyes. "I almost ran him over, Scully. I was headed back here, with a contingent from US Forestry right behind me. He stumbled out into the road about five, six miles from the pull-off where we hiked the trail. He was dressed in street clothes, but no shoes. His face, his lips, his fingers and toes, were blue and –"

"Wait. He was blue? Before he died?" She brushed her mouth clean, and bit into her sandwich again. Her forehead creased, her eyes bright.

"Yeah. He went over right as he hit the blacktop, went down hard. He was dead by the time I reached him," Mulder paused. He wasn't sure she would believe him, but he would tell her anyway. "And he was cold, Scully. Ice cold. Which I know makes no sense, but -"

"Actually, Mulder, it might." Something smoothed out on her face, and she leaned in towards him. "We're operating on the idea that…that wherever these victims, for lack of a better word, disappear to, they're being oversaturated with oxygen, which is, initially, a catalyst for cellular regeneration, improved mood and cognition, collagen production, but –"

" – but there's such a thing as too much of a good thing," he finished. She had told him about her idea, about the trendy oxygen bars that were popping up all along the coasts of the US. "And it's why O cafes or whatever they're called have warning for asthmatics and people with COPD and –"

"Exactly, yes. And Mulder, listen, I've been thinking about the stairs, okay?"

"There was something happening there, Scully. Something weird. I felt it, and so did Hawke Cleary. It felt…powerful. Huge."

"Yes, exactly. What if…what if…the stairs are markers for spots with unusually high concentrations of oxygen? What if they _are_ put there, intentionally? If the oxygen is as high as I think it has to be in those locations, you can't trust what you think you saw. Your brain wouldn't be functioning properly."

"By whom, Scully? Who put them there? And…let's just say I didn't actually see what I actually think I saw. Hawke Cleary is gone. Tim Garrison, Trish Rodgers, Fred Dudourge, where did they go Scully? And who brought them back?"

Scully put her sandwich down and looked at him for a long time. "Well, Mulder, I think we both can come up with a few ideas there. All it would take is some money, a lot of influence and too much power and corruption." Her hand reached up and rubbed fretfully at the spot where her implant had been embedded.

"We better get back up there, Scully, before –"

"I was looking all over for you two."

They both started, looked up. Their boss was standing above them. Neither of them had noticed his approach or presence.

"Sir," Scully nodded.

"Skinner, Scully and I have to get back up to the most recent disappearance site, where Hawke Cleary was last seen. We don't have much time and –"

"We don't have any time, Agent Mulder," Skinner pursed his lips and refused to meet Mulder's gaze. "The FBI is off this case. It's being handled simultaneously by US Forestry, the CDC and several other agencies, and –"

"The CDC, sir?" Scully stood, and so did he. "Agent Mulder and I were just discussing that there's likely a natural explanation for the nature of the disappearances, why would the CDC need to be in-"

"As the saying goes, it's no longer our place to reason 'why,'" Skinner's face was impassive in that way that made Mulder want to smack him silly, though he knew their superior had taken hit after hit for them through the years. His façade of impartial stoicism was another method of protecting them, in the best way he knew how.

"This is bullshit, sir, if I may say so," Scully's cheeks were red. "We're being shut out because we're on to something."

"Hey, that's my line," he quipped, and the briefest of smiles crossed each of the other's mouth.

"In any case, it's time to get back to DC," Skinner replied. After a long moment. "This one slipped out of our grasp, agents, but there's still lots of others down there, in your basement suite."

This time, they all grinned, and there as a bit more genuine humor in their smiles. And hope.


	13. Delivery

**Chapter 13 – Delivery**

**A/N: Well, this is it! I have REALLY enjoyed writing this case, and I probably will write more. Thank you for reading! And I swear – I didn't mean for this X File to have 13 chapters! Just a SPOOKY coincidence. ****~CeeCee**

**And thanks to Deyse, for reviewing every chapter! This last one's especially for you!**

**Last but not least, I really started to write this fic for one of my besties IRL. This whole story is inspired by her bravery during this period of enormous personal change and growth. **

She walked back into their subterranean office nearly a week later, after an extended period of sleep, and then more sleep. Her fears about what would happen between she and Mulder when the returned to the questionable normality of their daily lives had yet to be tested: they left New Hampshire as they'd arrived, separately, and she'd driven back to DC.

She'd wanted – no _needed_ – the time to think. About the case. And about her partner. Her friend. Her _lover. _

"Christ," she muttered as she sat down behind Mulder's desk. There was a wobbly pile of packages to go through, mostly comprised of conspiracy theories and wish fulfillment. But they never ignored what Mulder called their "anti-fan mail." Whether she liked it or not, there were, on rare occasion, actual cases in the tower of mad correspondence and bunches of cleansing sage.

"Gee, thanks, Mulder, I get to go through all of the blurry photos of someone's cake plate or hairy Uncle Mike stalking in the woods," she said, grinning wryly and taking a sip of her tea.

Her partner had phoned on Sunday, early, and her heart has sped up – _stupid,_ that – wondering if an invitation to brunch or lunch or tea or Thai or _something_ would be forthcoming. It had been Sunday, after all. She was well-rested, if irritated and disappointed at their truncated investigation. She thought she could think of a few things to lift her spirit. Most of them involved Mulder in some capacity.

However.

"_Hey, Scully, I'm not going to be in Monday," Mulder had begun. "The Gunmen have a lead on something, in Ohio, or Illinois, or something. I'm catching a flight now I'll keep you posted."_

_"Mulder! You can't keep doing this. What's this lead? What's this _'something'_? You really shouldn't keep this sort of thing from me, you know, and Skinner's –"_

_"Exactly, Scully. Plausible deniability. What you don't know, you can't be prodded to reveal," she had been able to hear the grin in his voice, but she had also wondered…was he running from her? Not permanently, but…things between them had snowballed rather dramatically between them in less than a week. She still wasn't sure about her _own_ feelings, let alone his. Also, he did this: someone, a bunch of someones, had taken their case from them. Mulder would bury his disappointment and frustration in a new lead, instead. She knew him. So well. _Too _well. _

_So, she had backed off. _

_"Fine, Mulder. Fine. I'll tell Skinner you're out 'Squatching." _

_She had hung up with his laughter ringing in her ears. _

And now she sat in their dim, cluttered office, feeling more at home than she'd ever thought she would. It was where she belonged, like or not.

She worked her way slowly through the anti-fan mail, rolling her eyes and giggling in turn. Then she came to a small standard Priority USPS box, a little heavier than she expected. She glanced at the return address and exclaimed, grinning.

It was from Joanne Dudourge. She shook the box, and she was pretty sure what was inside. She ripped the package open.

And was greeted by the tempting aroma of homemade banana bread.

She pulled out three golden brown loaves, ensconced in clear plastic wrap adorned with The Gray Dove stickers. There was a small, unadorned card on the bottom of the box. She ripped open the envelope, pulled out the card, and read,

_"Dear Dana,_

_I hope you don't mind me calling you by your first name! Even though I am sending this to you at the freakin' FBI! I was putting a package together for Alice and Derek and remembered you really enjoyed your slice the morning you came in and we had our "unofficial" talk, so I decided to send you a few loaves. They freeze great, and you can share, or not, at your discretion. But I always find it tastes better over conversation and a mug of something warm, myself. _

_I wanted to write to say thank you. That may seem strange, but truthfully, life has been pretty strange the past few years, so I've learned to go with my gut on things anymore. And I really enjoyed our conversations, especially when you came to the Dove that morning. _

_I feel pretty terrible about what happened to Tim, though I don't know anyone could have stopped it, or him, even if we knew what was what. And no one seems to, Dana. You were the most honest with me, with us, you and Agent Mulder, but I'm not stupid. I know even the two of you kept stuff from us. I just get the feeling you did to protect us, rather than hide the truth, whatever that is. _

_Freddie and I are officially back together. He turned to me after Tim's funeral yesterday, and just said, "Jo, this is stupid." And you know? He's right. Whatever Tim was looking for, out there in the woods, Freddie and I already found it. Why act like we haven't?_

_Thank you for what you did, and what you tried to do. It's good to know someone's actually trying to help out there._

_Warm regards,_

_Jo Dudorge"_

She set the letter aside, grinning a bit. "A fan-fan letter, this time, Mulder," she muttered, and started laughing. She leaned over and grabbed one of the golden loaves of banana bread, brought it up to her smiling mouth, and inhaled deeply, her laugher ringing through the dark, near-forgotten hallways in the bowels of the Bureau.

ooOOOoo

It was late when she finally got back to her apartment, a new X-File tucked under her arm. She'd spent most of the day filling out endless forms and typing pointless reports on their findings, both in Pennsylvania and New Hampshire, and she was fuzzy and worn out, mostly by the futility of it all, by evening.

Just as she was heading towards her car, she heard Skinner's voice echoing off the parking garage walls. He'd handed her a file, his lips tight.

"Take a look at this tonight, Agent Scully," he pushed the folder, which was thicker than the norm, into her waiting hand. "And when Mulder gets back from wherever the hell he is, get down to South Carolina and get started on the autopsies."

"What autopsies, sir?" She'd answered, but he was already jogging away from her, back into the building.

"The dozen you have waiting for you down in Ol' Dixie!" Skinner's wry reply had come as the door had slammed behind him.

"A _dozen?!" _

And, now she threw the still unopened file onto her small dining room table with a sigh. She needed fortification. She headed to her fridge and pulled out a half-finished bottle of white wine, poured herself a generous glass. She contemplated her fridge then remembered: Jo Dudorge's banana bread.

"Dinner of champions!" She exclaimed to her empty apartment and pulled a loaf out of her briefcase.

A second glass and slice later, she was seated cross-legged at the table, the file spread out around her, frowning over medical reports, ironically, feeling more focused than she had all day inspire of the surge of alcohol and sugar into her system.

She was examining a crime scene photo when there was knock on her door. She padded over in her stockinged feet, slightly lightheaded from the wine. She already knew who would be on the other side.

"It's late, Mulder." But she couldn't help herself. She was grinning up at him.

"Nah, Scully, it's early, especially for me," he grinned back at her, stepping over the threshold. "Ohio was as big of a bust as Stonehenge. The Gunmen are losing their mojo, I think."

"Oh, yeah, because those guys are usually dripping with it," she answered. He was very close to her, still smiling. Suddenly, he leaned over and engulfed her in an embrace. It felt so wonderful, she leaned into it. His nose pressed against her cheek, sniffing.

"You smell like banana bread, Scully."

"There's a logical explanation for that Mulder," she replied, moving away from him, towards the table. "And, surprisingly, it doesn't involve aliens."

"What's all this, Scully? Another case?" He grinned at the file fanned out around her from the doorway of her kitchen, a hunk of bread in his hand.

"Yes. One with autopsies," she answered. "Lots and lots of autopsies."

"This is delishiosh," he mumbled, sitting down next to her. "Where did you get this?"

"You're getting crumbs on the crime scene photos, Mulder," she chastised. "Joanne Dudorge sent them to the Bureau for us. For _me_, really." She raised an eyebrow at him.

"Fan-fan mail Scully! I knew it would happen someday! And it was bound to come addressed to you, of course," he replied, a spray of crumbs falling from his lips.

"She sent me more, but I hid it, wisely, I see," she replied. He scooted his chair over, so his side pressed against hers. "She and Freddie got back together, for good, she says."

Mulder nodded, but didn't speak. She continued.

"I can't help but think of Tim Garrison, Mulder. About what he kept going out to those woods for. What he hoped to find. Why he couldn't see what he was doing was potentially – ultimately – the worst kind of dangerous. And he wasn't the only one."

"I can understand it, Scully. That hope, that feeling, that surety – whatever it is that will finally help everything make sense is out there. You just need to have to audacity to keep looking," he shrugged.

"But at what cost, Mulder?" She replied, frustrated. The places where their bodies touched pulsed with warmth.

"I said I understood it, Scully, not that it was wise," he answered. "Besides, I think I've got more in common with Fred than Tim."

"Yeah, you're alive at least," she shot back.

"Exactly, Scully, I'm _alive._ My life, what I have, it's enough. No, it's _more_ than enough," he gazed at her for a long moment, then picked up a random paper. "This is important, sure, our work, the X Files. Crucial, even. But I couldn't do it alone anymore. I wouldn't want to. What would be the point?"

He leaned over and kissed her, briefly but intensely. She inhaled and ran her hand down his cheek, brushing crumbs aside, their new case waiting patiently on her kitchen table.

Jo Dudorge was right. Some things were just better when they were shared.


End file.
